


Sometimes the Devil is a Gentleman

by LittleObsessions



Category: Addams Family - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, Caning, F/M, Fear, Married Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 05:00:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20808935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleObsessions/pseuds/LittleObsessions
Summary: “Take,” she says, enjoying the blackness of his eyes, stealing her breath, “your rage out on me.”





	Sometimes the Devil is a Gentleman

**Author's Note:**

> This is over 4000 words of dark, depraved smut. Which I love. 
> 
> You have been suitably warned, but if you don't heed the warning, enjoy it. I don't have a beta in this fandom, so mistakes are my own - in spite of my best efforts -, and if you spot one, please let me know. 
> 
> This story came from two very shaky foundations:  
1) the graveyard scene in he first movie, when Morticia speaks with Fester, annoys me. She can't know him in terms of timing, yet she behaves like she does.  
2) What did Gomez do to actually 'frighten' Morticia?  
The Addams Family does not belong to me. If it did, it would be R rated.

* * *

“How did it go?” She asks Williamson lowly, setting aside her shears, though she already knows.

Williamson’s cigar hangs loosely from between his teeth, and as he shakes his head it wiggles perilously.

“Not swimmingly,” he mutters, watching as Gomez sets his coat carelessly over the chair, and proceeds to pour a generous measure. “Try to dissuade him from any more intermediary action –“

“I am miserable, not deaf,” Gomez says, two glasses in hand, one already making its way to his lips.

She casts her eyes over Williamson’s serious face before looking at her husband, schooling her mouth into a gentle smile.

“Darling, I understand –“

“Tish…” he pulls apart his bow tie, leaving it unfurled around his neck as he loosens his top button.

Williamson takes the tumbler he offers and downs it in one impressive gulp.

“I will leave him in your capable hands,” Williamson hands her the tumbler and draws his scarf around his neck, before leaning in and kissing her cheek.

“I don’t need mollycoddling, I am not a child,” Gomez grumbles half-heartedly.

“Well, stop acting like one,” Williamson throws over his shoulder, half-way out of the door. “It means a lot to you, but you’ve got to let it go.”

There is a momentary pause, and she prudently decides to return to her roses. She knows he will emerge from this in much the same fashion as he emerges from all of his miseries, and he is not quite ready for her to expedite the process for him.

“I know I’ve got to let it go,” he flops into his chair beside the fire, “but I can’t let it go quite yet. It’s a huge part of my.... Williamson’s right, it’s haemorrhaging the coffers – “

“you have plenty to spare in that respect,” she says, catching a blood red bloom between finger and thumb.

She loathes discussing money, it feels vulgar. And as equitable as their marriage is, she does not meddle in his business affairs unless he asks her directly.

“I do, but…” he groans, and she does turn at the sound, setting he rear against the table. “It was Fester’s and it just seems…”

The root of the issue around his reluctance to let the uranium mine fall into liquidation is because it was Fester’s fledgling business – at the time uranium was much more lucrative and far less vilified – and he feels responsible for it, in light of Fester’s prolonged absence.

She’s not a woman of business, but she knows that guilt and profit don’t make for good bedfellows.

“I know what I’ve got to do…I’m just so furious,” he scrubs his face, as if trying to rub away the disappointment, and then stands.

“I am very sorry, my darling,” she moves to meet him, reaching her fingers out grip his.

“I know,” he withdraws his hand. “I’ll be in the study.”

She watches his retreating back, helplessness enveloping her. She knows Gomez too well to attempt to convince him with platitudes and she also knows that the only thing which will nurse him through his sadness is time.

She lifts her shears again, returning to her task, but she can’t concentrate. There is a distant explosion, and the house shakes mildly for a moment, and she knows that the children have finished their homework and have found their way to the playroom.

They are her children, and she loves them with an intensity that is impossible to quantify, but there are times she envies their closeness in a way a mother typically should not. She never had that closeness with her sister, even when they were very young.

She knows they get their inclination for closeness from their father because it is not a trait they inherited from her.

She looks at the door he just left through and she knows, in spite of all he has, that the miss of his elder brother has weighed – continues to weigh – heavily on him, loitering at the periphery of every success, of every change; big or small, of every moment he wishes he could share with the brother who’s picture still sits at the side of their bed.

Morticia had met Fester briefly, once – at the coming out of one of the Rockerfeller girls – a year or so before he absconded from the family, the gossip of which was, she now knew, far less scandalous than the truth. He had been shy and decent and was waiting by the bar for a brother who was to be relied upon to make an entrance. Gomez’s reputation, in comparison to his brother, was one she still blushes to recall.

The blush is quickly chased with a devious smile, even now, as she abandons her shears and makes her way to the window, perching on the seat.

It was the season before her own, and she was reticent and timid around the barely contained animalism that was blossoming in every corner, under the scornful and watchful eyes of ambitious parents and guardians, who didn’t want their children making costly missteps.

He had smiled shyly, bald head shining in the warm lights of the ballroom, and she had pitied him for his clear vexation in the face of such tireless scrutiny.

“I am Morticia,” she had said kindly, turning to watch the swirling couples on the floor.

“I am Fester.”

“I know,” she turned to him.

“I hate these things,” he shrugged, taking a swig of champagne. “I would much rather be at home, where my dynamite awaits.”

She had laughed, and then her father had called to her to take her home, because it later transpired that Ophelia had been caught with one of the debutante’s daddy’s hands in her panties, and she had been proud of it, and their father had nearly wept with rage.

Morticia had thought it rather delightful too.

And that was her one and only encounter with the brother who had fled, and the sum total of her relationship with him; relationship, a word she uses tenuously, but one she is inclined to use because she has to define it in some way.

Her husband’s sadness is real and sore, and she understands it with shocking clarity that is humiliating to her when she admits it, even to him.

“Mother?”

She looks up from her reverie to see her children framed in the door, silhouetted against the dying sun. Wednesday looks remarkably grown up in that moment, and it startles her.

“Darlings, it sounds as if you’re having a wonderful – if somewhat destructive – time.”

Pugsley grins and shuffles into the library.

“What do you want?” She asks, an eyebrow rising, knowing there is about to be a proposition made and it’s going to involve her cheque book or something worse. She would be willing to bet said cheque book on her daughter speaking next, since Wednesday is the spokesperson for their ventures, most especially when they involve something dangerous or illegal.

Both of which she highly encourages.

“Mother – “

“They’re showing _The Exorcist_ and _Carrie_ in a double bill and- “

“They’re puerile,” Wednesday interjects, “but he wants to go. And they aren’t afraid enough of him to let him in underage…”

Morticia smiles, opens the cigar box on the sideboard, and pulls out a roll of twenties.

“Don’t scare the pensioners too much,” she counsels, bending to kiss both of their cheeks.

“Why else would one ride a bus?” Wednesday asks dryly, taking the money and turning on her heels.

“Thank you, mother,” Pugsley grins, chasing after his sister and leaving her alone once more.

-0-

Dinner is a much quieter affair than normal - with her mama occupied with a time-consuming potion project- and she watches as he sets his fork down on his plate, his meal half-finished.

“Do you every feel angry about it?”

She pours them both more wine, silently commending Lurch on his choice of vintage, before answering him, though she knows exactly what he’s referring to.

“Angry about how it happened, or what I did?”

He looks at her, then his mouth quirks in a small smile.

“What we did,” her corrects, as if his complicity somehow lessens her own guilt.

“I sometimes feel angry that I let it go that far. But I was afraid and…” she sets her chin on her hand and leans into him. “You know I can’t regret it, but I can regret what I did. Angry? No.”

He takes a long drink of wine and slides his hand across the table to clasp hers.

“I hate what I did to Fester, I truly do. I mean it was-“

“It was a mistake,” she interrupts softly.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” he sighs. “I did it because I could, and because I cared so little about his feelings.”

She could give him platitudes, tell him that he is being needlessly unfair on himself, but she does not because it would be disingenuous when he is being brutally honest.

“And that feeling…” he shakes his head. “I live with it every day. Tomorrow it’s twenty-five years, and I still can’t forgive myself, or stop feeling the rage that I do when I think about how selfish I was.”

“Selfishness is sometimes the only solution,” she says quietly but with confidence that comes from truly believing it.

His eyebrow rises and he smiles, and she’s happy at least that she can elicit that in him. 

She knows he finds that discordantly pleasing; her entirely shameless selfishness pushed up against her own grace. And he finds it strange too for, at his core, Gomez is ultimately self-sacrificing, and she is not, and more to the point she is unapologetic about it. She knows he finds that abhorrent and that abhorrence is paradoxically something he loves. Not even he would admit that, despite their deep honesty with each other. There were boundaries even he couldn’t acknowledge crossing, even as he danced over them.

“I have more work to do,” he says at length, as Lurch clears their plates away and, polishing his wine, Gomez stands. 

She considers tempting him to remain - it would be very easy - but she knows as equally that it would be unfair to bring it about so unceremoniously. He deserves, she thinks, a real effort on her part.

She is nothing if not a committed spouse.

-0-

She can tell from the tense set of his jaw, from the way he subtly – but nonetheless – shifts in his seat, that her appearance in his study past midnight has its desired impact.

“Tish…”

She leans against the doorjamb, as if her appearance is entirely casual and not at all engineered to elicit such a reaction.

“Cold?” He asks, a grin on his face, settling back in his chair.

“Enterprising,” she says softly, shifting so her robe falls open entirely, leaving nothing to his prodigious imagination. “Come to bed.”

“The devil works hard,” he stands and pushes his chair under his desk, pausing to drink the last of the Scotch in the tumbler.

She briefly wonders how many of those he has had in the intervening hours, but she puts that aside. Inebriated Gomez is even more delightfully debauched than a sober one.

“But I work harder,” she reaches out and grips his lapels, propelling him towards her.

He is merely inches from her, so near she can feel furious heat radiating from his body. His fingers come up to pull her robe apart, clearly looking for confirmation of what she’s wearing. Though wearing implies something of modesty, and she’d be lying if she said this felt anything like modesty.

He pulls on the harness which lies flush against her sternum, trailing his finger under the tight material up to the metal ring at her neck, tugging her closer to him with the easy pull of two fingers. She doesn’t know where his other hand is – which in itself is a delight – until she feels it between her unsuspecting thighs, roughly inspecting over her already wet flesh, his fingers tracing the harness pulling on the sensitive skin which is entirely exposed because of the – intentional – positioning.

He withdraws his fingers and she resist the urge to moan her dissatisfaction at their absence. She has far grander plans than a quick fingering and then an even quicker fuck, though she can acknowledge its temptations, so she remains silent, waiting for his next move.

He seems, from the hardness of the cock pressing into her thigh, to have been successfully extracted from his woe. And she very much intends to keep it that way. She is not above using her body to get what she wants; in fact, she relishes it.

And he knows that, and he will all too willingly indulge her.

His fingers return, and as he abruptly plunges them into her, her moan shatters the expectant silence of his study.

“Take,” she says, enjoying the blackness of his eyes, the way he slides his fingers into her, careful to push up so the entire harness that wraps her body pulls against her, stealing her breath, “your rage out on me.”

“Can you handle that?” He asks, proceeding to tear her robe from her shoulders to reveal the whole, intricate pattern, woven across her skin in a series of ‘o’ rings and tight satin straps.

She feels his desire shudder through him, release itself into his fingertips and lips and mouth and cock.

For an infinitesimal moment she pretends to be offended by such a scurrilous question, but then she stares right into those deliciously black eyes, and prays for the depravity she knows only he can deliver her.

“Let’s see.”

-0-

Minutes feel like hours, and she doesn’t know where denial ends, and relief begins. All she knows is that she’s been teetering on the brink of an orgasm for what feels like and increasingly painful period of time, and its yet to come to fruition.

She is also giddy with anticipation, but she would never dream of showing it. Every time she is just nearly there, he withdraws whatever delicious means of coaxing her to orgasm he is using.

It has yet to get boring.

She wriggles her fingers a little, tempting some blood into the heavy extremities, and making the chain that holds her, suspending her by her wrists and keeping her just on her tiptoes, rattle. She reprimands herself for her lack of foresight, having installed this chain with the intention of using it on her husband, she had forgotten to purchase a slightly longer chain for herself.

She senses that the rattle of the chains changing the tenor of the room, but behind the complete darkness of the blindfold it is impossible to tell.

“Is it beginning to hurt?”  
Vulnerability is not something she typically enjoys and even now she has to force herself to supplicate to it because it certainly does not come naturally to her. But as she forces herself to relax, to breathe through the ripping heat in her shoulder blades, the aching need in her belly, the tension puling at her nipples, she feels the value of it in a way that always surprises her.

“Yes,” she says softly, surprised at the genuine whimper in her voice.

“Good.”

She feels him lift her slightly, his strong arm sliding under her rear to raise her up so he can slide a velvet cushion under her feet, giving her the leverage she needs to take the weight off her arms just a little. She can picture the exact cushion – a decadent confection that usually lives on the plush red velvet couch in this, their private dungeon, dark green and black lace and beautiful. She laments its potential ruination in this situation, but material things can always be replaced, she soothes herself.

“Relax,” he whispers.

She cannot, she can’t possibly relax, knowing that he is unpredictably deviant tonight and that this is the only time he is truly comfortable with her being in subjugation to him; when he can’t possibly contain that side of himself any longer.

She feels his breath – cigars and Scotch – on her neck, and then his tongue tracing a line across her desperate flesh as his fingers push her hair away.

“I love your neck,” he whispers, like a prayer, “I dream about kissing it.”

She remains silent; there is no need for a witty rejoinder in the face of such unequivocal worship. She finds it immensely satisfying.

“And the way you shudder when I do.”

She does exactly that as he swipes his tongue over a particularly sensitive spot behind her ear, as if to prove his point.

Having been denied her sight, she is picturing the other things his tongue is so adept at and it certainly isn’t helping.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says softly, as if he read her mind.

He probably did. After all, he knows her remarkably well.

“I am thinking about you eating me until I come,” she says bluntly, and she is impressed that he doesn’t respond at all.

She expected at least a groan. He loves when she is crude though she rarely is, and only ever within the confines of their most private moments.

And her own filthy imaginings of course.

She thinks even her husband hasn’t plundered the depth of those yet, though she’s more than happy to let him keep exploring.

“Dirty mouth,” he says disparagingly, as he hooks a leg upwards, and she winces as she feels something pressing against her, then entering her.

Cold. Not him, she knows instantly. An instrument. But one of pleasure, so she relaxes.

This is not the first time they’ve indulged in the simplistic, vanilla means so common to others.

“I bought this for you, made of glass. Heartless, unfeeling,” he whispers in her ear, pushing it in and withdrawing it. she doesn’t know when, so he must have kept it for just such an occasion.

Its smooth and cold, and she feels her muscles tense as he angles it upwards and she’s compelled to let out a little sigh. Her toes curl into the cushion.

“I also love buying you gifts,” he informs casually, while he fucks the toy into her, and she feels herself tipping over the edge. “I love gifting you things, seeing that resentful delight in your dark eyes. You find it hard accepting gifts, even from me.”

She cries out, her muscles contracting as an orgasm starts to pull at her gut.

He stops so abruptly it nearly hurts.

She pants her disappointment, her head falling onto his shoulder – bare, he has undressed somewhere in between whipping her and now – and refuses the small voice, right at the primal core of her brain, telling her to beg.

She is far above that. Even at her most desperate.

“Do you want more?”

Begging is not the same as answering a question, she tries to assuage herself.

“Yes.”

He chuckles, and she can almost perfectly picture his fingers as they close around her nipple and pinch and twist until she grinds herself against his hip in the hope of some relief.

“You are so beautiful like this,” he says, and for the first time in the last few hours his own desires betray him.

His voice is thick, as if he’s speaking form behind glass.

She wonders if she is enough for his happiness sometimes, in the tiny moments of doubt, but the depth of his voice tells her she should never worry.

“Thank you,” escapes her, and whatever that does to him is powerful – she is always powerful – because he drops from her and she feels him swing her legs over what she knows to be both of his shoulders, using the harness around her body to pull her cunt towards his mouth.

She nearly screams as he sucks his clit into her mouth, and she is panting within minutes. She cannot do anything but suffer under his tongue, and all the knowledge he has gained over the years, and the way he is tugging at the straps around her body to fuck her against his face makes her want to weep. She thinks she might shatter into a million pieces.

She desperately wishes she could see it, see the darkness of his eyes, the utter concentration he dedicates to making her scream.

But just at the brink, again, he pushes her from him.

“No,” he barks, and she barely has time to recover from her desire to weep before he kicks the cushion away and she is left dangling, the searing pain of being returned to the position magnified by the brief respite from it.

“Please…” trickles out from her lips, weakly, and – as she has once or twice felt on a rare occasion – the sensation of fear creeps up on her.

He moves away from her and she feels completely lost.

There is true liberation in this kind of fear, fear of a man she thinks she knows so well that she can predict each and every move. She thought she had him, bent between her legs, and that she would get what she wanted, and yet here she is, entirely unsure of any of that as her own wetness trickles, with his spit, between her thighs.

She is nearly coming at the very terror of it all.

She feels the swish of air, the basic disruption of time and space, before the cane lands with a smart crack across her ass. And he roars into the silence, from behind her, tearing it apart like an animal, rending it as a moment where manner and propriety and the veneer they maintain is no longer welcome.

He brings the cane down again, once, twice, three times, each time with a pained cry, almost in perfect time with the crack it makes as it reverberates across her skin. The brutality sends shards of horror, sharps as glass, hot as knives, through every inch of her body.

She won’t be able to sit properly tomorrow, without perching in a delicate manner, and he will smile at her across the dinner table and every drop of that secret will flood into her underwear.

All she wants is to touch herself, to feel the dreadful burn of the lashing and his prodigious anger, as she brings herself to climax.

One last lashing heralds the end of the climactic fury, and she hears the cane being discarded as he moves again to the front of her exhausted body.

He swings her legs up, lifting her so high that her arms go limp, and pushes his cock into her in one fluid movement. 

He is crying out in rage, like a wild animal, and she feels herself tipping into oblivion, and the knowledge he won’t deny her descent simply adds to the building pain in her stomach and legs and body.

He reaches up and rips the satin blindfold away from her eyes, and in the blinding light she is confronted by the eyes of the very devil himself and she thinks of Shelley: _sometimes the Devil is a gentleman_.

And with that she is tumbling, falling as he fucks into her and stares into her eyes and roars into the void of the things they pretend to be in the light of day.

She feels far away from her body, and even from him, in a space she rarely occupies. Pure bliss. And she feels him releasing inside her, hot and full and hard, and she wants to acknowledge it, but the absolute power of the moment has stolen her very ability to acknowledge the moment itself.

His eyes draw her back, and she stares into every proclamation of love, every sacrifice, every mistake.

And it terrifies her and compels her in equal measure, and she supposes that is what a truly happy union is.

-0-

“You frightened me,” she finally finds the words to articulate it, having had him carry her wordlessly to the relative innocence of their marriage bed after he had released her from her chains.

“Do it again.”

He struts towards her after a pause, and instead of pouncing on her as she expects, he takes her hands within his, and kisses each of her fingers.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, lips lingering on the skin of her hand.

She touches his cheek, recognising the change in tone for what it is.

“I love you,” she says softly, the implication loud and clear.

He smiles and she looks into his eyes and there is a rare calm in them, placid, accepting.

“I have a suggestion,” she says coyly, turning to lie on her stomach, and then looking over her shoulder. “Why don’t you lift my hem and examine your handy-work before we have to indulge our delightful little brats and the many tedious rigours of a normal day?”

He laughs unctuously, sets his rapier against the night stand, and pulls back the sheets.

“For purely observational purposes, of course?”” He leans over and slides the length of her nightgown from her ankle up to her waist.

“Of course.”


End file.
